


Pillars of Faith

by overthemoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Author hasn't watched S4, Depression, F/M, Gen, Grieving, M/M, Not S3 or S4 Compliant, POV John, POV John Watson, Parentlock, Post Reichenbach, Post-Reichenbach, Slow To Update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1455886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthemoon/pseuds/overthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John always needed the strengths of others to activate what was sturdy in him.  What will he do when he has nothing left to lean on?</p><p>(Sometimes faith must come from more than just the heart.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crumbling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PipMer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/gifts).



> God Pip, I'm so sorry this took so damn long. I can't promise fast updates because my heath's started going downhill and I've still got to deal with family drama and school and the old fashioned depression/anxiety demons. 
> 
> This is a fill for the prompt: "You like parentlock and post-reichenbach angst. How about a blend of the two? Sherlock comes back to a widowed John who has a young daughter. John lets Sherlock move in with them (perhaps they’re at Baker Street), and Sherlock becomes a second father to John’s daughter. Perhaps Sherlock and John get married eventually?"
> 
> Can't promise that I'll hit all of them, but I'll do my damn best to try.
> 
> Warnings for: Spousal death/depression/grieving. These warnings will be updated as new chapters are added.

John Watson stares down at the headstone and tightens his grip around the cheap bouquet of flowers. He didn’t think he’d have to this again. His leg twinges uncomfortably, and he briefly regrets leaving his cane in the car.

The headstone reads: Mary Morstan. Mother, most beloved. John leans down, and settles the cluster of white flowers on the grave. “I miss you,” John says. “They never did catch the bastard. I thought-” He stops himself. He should be more charitable to the dead, he thinks. Those who will stay dead, anyway.

“You deserved to be happier.” John exhales. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t protect you.” He won’t have nightmares about her death, at least, no mental repeats of the actual act of Mary being slammed by a careless driver’s front grill and seeing pavement stained red. Again.

John clenches his jaw and tightens his fists around a small hand that isn’t there.

“I’m sorry,” John repeats. He stares at the grey headstone. His phone chirps a reminder. It’s his turn. Time to pick up Cecelia from school. He grimaces and puts his phone back his pocket. It’s not as if Mary is going to go pickup her daughter.

He manages to keep himself from limping too badly until he gets to the entrance. A black car sits at the edge of the parking lot, and John curses in the languages of three continents. “Bloody Holmes,” he swears, and stumps off.

* * *

  
“John?” Cecelia whines for the fifth time since he’s gotten back to their flat. She stares at him and John tries to forgive her for being lost and angry and only eight years old. “Have you seen my favorite mug? The one with the-”

“Fez?” John says. He grabs his cane and stumps over to the cupboard where they keep the mugs. “It’s not in the sink?”

Cecelia shakes her head while sitting on the kitchen counter. Her white shirt has dirt smudges on it and John tries not to hate that he will have to do extra washing later. He blinks blearily. He needs another cup of tea.

“I got a week off from school,” she says. “I’ve never had a whole week off before.” She adjusts the flowerpots sitting on the kitchen window sill. Her little yellow watering can dinks loudly on the ceramic tiled counter. The gardenias are wilting, maybe a little more wilted than they were before.

John pulls down another mug. “I’m making tea,” he says. “Why don’t you go watch cartoons? Or I can get the Doctor Who DvDs out.” Cecelia glares at him for a moment, then nods and leaves the room.

I should have asked her to stay, John thinks, and puts the kettle on.

While he waits for the kettle to boil, he stares at the whiteboard monthly calendar on the wall. Mary’s cursive handwriting still says, “Happy Anniversary!” on the 19th. Today is the 14th. Bills are due on the 23rd this month. Cecelia is supposed to go to her friend’s for tea on Saturday. Every other square is blank. Well, at least he’ll have work to keep him moving, he supposes, and the kettle whistles.

“Tea’s almost ready,” he calls into the other room. He gets no response.

* * *

  
It had taken one look for his boss to decide to send him back home. “You’re grieving,” she had said, bluntly. “Go home. Two days, paid. Take care of your stepdaughter. Your patients can wait.” The secretary had silently passed him a well wishes card as he had limped out of the building, with four or five hastily scribbled signatures of names John can’t read.

The sudden glut of free time leaves John wandering London, in the same drifting pattern he’d taken before he’d met Sherlock. The cane beats out a resentful tattoo on the pavement, marching with John in time. He circles around the block where the accident happened, but can’t actually bring himself to cross the intersection. In his head there’s still a small splotch of coppery red, dried and flaky, spattered on the pavement; the rain hasn’t come along yet to wash it away.

He takes a detour through Regent’s Park. The grass is only slightly trampled by the few Londoners he sees walking through. It’s springtime, so the water is about the same shade as the grass, only slightly blue this time, and the geese are nesting on the lawn and hissing at the passerby. There were only so many telly reruns he could tolerate before getting cabin fever. Harry agreed to look after Cecelia for a while (“Yes, no drinking. Christ, I’m not that stupid,” she’d said.) so John could get some fresh air.

John limps past the park bench and thinks about sitting down, stopping, when the two geese move forward and start hissing at him. He walks faster.

* * *

  
Sherlock won’t meet John’s eyes as John marches angrily towards him. Bastard probably was following me all the while, John thinks.

“What,” John says. “I asked you to leave me alone.” He looks at Sherlock, sitting straight and solemn on a bench in Regent’s Park. “Seriously. _How_ could you have missed that?”

“I brought coffee,” Sherlock says. He holds up a thermos of coffee. John laughs hysterically, because the other option is to cry. “You’re less irrational when you’ve had caffeine.”

John sits stiffly on the bench and sniffs the coffee suspiciously. Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I may have had some while I was waiting,” Sherlock mutters. “It’s just coffee, John. How you drink it black is beyond me.”

John reminds himself that really, that was only once, and gulps appreciatively at the hot drink. “Why are you doing this?” John asks. He leans his cane against the bench and looks sideways at Sherlock. Sherlock ignores him and stares stares straight ahead, lips twitching as he’s probably deduced passerby affairs or illegitimate children or whatever Sherlock was up to, these days.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just folds his hands in his lap and breathes out slowly. John can see that the alluring cheekbones have grown sharper, now that there’s only old Mrs Hudson probably to remind him to eat. There’s no reeking of cigarette smoke though. Small improvements.

“Sherlock, you can’t just sit here pretending that you traced my steps and brought me coffee, because you-” John sighs and looks away. “Don’t play nice. I know-” John bites his lip. “Knew you better than that.”

“There’s no need to be delicate with _my_ feelings, John,” Sherlock says. “I’m not the one who’s still grieving.”

John should correct Sherlock, tell him that he looks like shit while he’s sitting there trying not to shiver in the cold with ill kept hair and dark circles under his eyes, too pale skin and chapped lips. John takes another sip of coffee.

“They didn’t catch the driver,” Sherlock says. His eyes dart over to John briefly. “Lestrade told me. Called in a favor.”

John nods and says, “It was a hit and run. Open and shut case.” He stares down at his hand, where his wedding band still feels smooth on his finger. His throat relaxes enough to let him force out, “Accidents happen- to, well, ordinary people, you know.”

Sherlock finds these things boring anyway, doesn’t he? John sits on the cold uncomfortable bench and drinks the rest of the coffee. Even after four years, Sherlock still hasn’t deleted the way John takes his coffee and John really doesn’t want to think about why Sherlock would still be wasting memory space on such useless data.

“Well, I probably should be going,” John says at last. If Sherlock does have reasons for seeking out a former best friend, John doesn’t want to know. “Thanks. For the coffee.” (It was excellent coffee.) He hands the now empty thermos back to Sherlock.

Sherlock hands John a piece of paper with a mobile number scribbled on it. “I would look, if you wanted,” Sherlock says. “It shouldn’t have happened.” John takes the piece of paper and puts it in his pocket. Sherlock stares at John intently for a moment, then abruptly stands up. “Thank you for your time,” he says, and walks away, in the direction John came from.

John walks forward towards the other side of the park. Harry probably will be running out of ways to entertain Cecelia by now. Best to go pick her up and take her to the library, or something.


	2. Rubble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to the clinic, to Cecelia's school, and meets Mycroft. In that order.  
> There may or may not be implied "fuck off" involved.  
> Or  
> Cecelia isn't doing too good, which is normal, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this took a ridiculously long time to write.  
> Yes, I'm sorry this took so long.  
> I won't be abandoning the story, but the wait is probably gonna make me look like I'm going to abandon it.  
> Better hit the subscribe button.
> 
> Thanks to the awesomesauce [tiltedsyllogism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism) for the beta and in general listening to me whinge about plot holes. I couldn't have done this without you.

_Sherlock used to do this for me, didn’t he?_   The thought pops into his head as John rummages through a stack of CD’s, hoping for something soothing.

Cecelia clutches the box of tissues and her stuffed duck tightly. Mr Quackers will survive another hug. And a wash, hopefully.

“I’m fine,” she insists. The trash basket is overflowing with used tissues. “I’m not scared.” It’s 3 bloody AM. Not the best time to start arguing about scared or not.

John sits on the edge of the bed. “Do you want to talk about it?” He’s not good at this sort of stuff, but Cee is only a kid. His hand clench. John should try. He could explain, something, anything, only -- how does he explain how he always had a half second where he couldn’t tell the difference between his fear sweat and the dream’s blood?

Cecelia shakes her head. She asks quietly, “I’m fine, John. See?” She wiggles Mr Quackers at him. “Mr Quakers is here.”

“Do you want some hot chocolate? I can make some, if you like.”

She shakes her head again.

“I can-” What can he do really? He never got over his own nightmares to begin with. “I can wake you up. If it looks like you’re having another one.”

Cecelia squints at him. “Mum always put a night light out,” she says. “I think mine’s still in storage though.”

Right. Okay. He can do that.

She’s got her back turned to him when John comes back. “I’ll just-” He gestures at the small night light. Who is he kidding. “Good dreams,” he says softly. He leaves the door open. Just in case.

* * *

  
Work isn’t so bad today. He can manage a smile at the receptionist on the way into his office.

He texts Sherlock before the first patient comes in.

[to: Sherlock] Tell Mycroft to piss off.  
I cannot control my brother. - SH  
[to: Sherlock] Black cars are making C nervous. Stop.  
[to: Sherlock] It’s an invasion of privacy anyway.  
Mrs. H says hi. - SH  
I moved back in. - SH  
[to: Sherlock] Patient is here.

The patient won’t be here for another ten minutes. John turns off his phone and puts it away. Sherlock managed without him long enough anyway.

He turns on his phone during his lunch break. Two missed calls, both from Cecelia’s school.

Shit.

John pulls on his coat in a hurry and calls back.

“Hi, um, this is John Watson, I’m Cecelia Morstan’s guardian?”

A long sigh emerges from the other side of the phone. “Cecelia reported feeling unwell during her morning class. She is currently waiting for you in the office.”

His boss is going to skin him if John skives off work today, even if it is for his kid. (He has a kid now. Jesus.)

“I…. Give me thirty minutes.” He’ll need to take a taxi to make it that quickly.

“We’ll have one of her friends collect her things,” the secretary says, and hangs up.

* * *

  
Is five quid too big a tip for shaving five minutes off travel time? Doesn’t matter. John hurries into the office. Cecelia is sitting on her hands in one of the plastic chairs near the window. John nods to the secretary.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly. “Sorry about that. John Watson, here to pick up Cecelia Morstan.”

The secretary gestures towards Cecelia, who’s already picked up her backpack. “We hope she feels better tomorrow,” the secretary says.

John nods. He takes Cecelia’s hand and leads her out the door. “Do we have to walk home now?” Cecelia asks. She looks pale. There are faint circles under her eyes.

One more taxi wouldn’t hurt, he supposes. He can make it up by walking home for a few days. “Do you want to take a nap, when you get home?” John asks. “I should check your temperature.” There had been a flu going ‘round the clinic. He ought to be careful. Maybe hot tea and lemon-

John’s phone buzzes in his pocket. New text messages. He holds out his arm to call for a cab. His hand itches to check. Sherlock. It has to be. Cecelia’s hand tightens on John’s arm.

A black car pulls up. Cecelia steps behind John. The window rolls down, and Mycroft Holmes’s voice floats out.

“I would be happy to offer you assistance, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says.

Cecelia peeks out and squeeze’s John’s left arm tightly.

“Merely as a safety precaution,” Mycroft continues smoothly. “But there is young Miss Morstan to consider, of course.”

John checks behind him. “Who is he?” Cecelia asks. “How does he know my name?”

She’s only eight, Christ. Can’t the two of them give the poor kid a break?

“Did you tell him about me?” she asks.

Mycroft sighs. John clenches his fist. Some things never change.

“Get in the car, John,” Mycroft says.

Mycroft probably won’t pull anything excessive. Not while there are civilians around.

John bends over and whispers heatedly, “She’s just a kid! Leave her out of it.” He doesn’t stop to check if Mycroft might have an emotional reaction, or god forbid, a facial expression, for once.

John nods at Cecelia and stiffly turns away from the black car. Cecelia changes her clinging to his left hand instead of his arm and he pulls her along, walking in the opposite direction of traffic.

“It’s no one important,” John says to her. “Come on, let’s get a cab.”

* * *

  
Cecelia is nodding off by the time the cab gets to their flat. John holds her up with one hand while the other fumbles with his keys. He really should have insisted she stay at home. Maybe next time.

She doesn’t protest when he settles her on their battered sofa, instead taking the rug throw and pulling it over her head.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he says. Hot tea and lemon are good for soothing sore throats, then he needs to dig out the thermometer and maybe schedule an appointment-

The flat’s buzzer goes off. John frowns and goes to answer the door.

Mycroft Holmes smiles politely. “We didn’t get to finish our conversation,” he says. John shuts the door in Mycroft’s face.

“There’s nothing left to say,” John says to the closed door. The flat’s buzzer goes off again.

John opens the door again. Mycroft is still standing there, leaning on his black umbrella.

Mycroft grimaces slightly. “Time used to be you offered me tea, before ushering me out,” he said. “Things have changed.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” John says tightly. “What do you want?”

“You already know that Sherlock is back in town,” Mycroft says. “I gather that you’ve seen him.”

John clenches his left fist, doesn’t say anything.

“Do you plan to do it again?” Mycroft asks. “I understand that the surveillance can be perceived as intrusive, but I do only wish for the best. It’s the least I can do.”

“For the last time, leave her out of this,” John hisses.

The umbrella taps idly on the stoop. “Double shift yesterday. Tricky thing, single parenting.” Mycroft stops tapping the umbrella. “Children need so much watching.”

Punching Mycroft would be a very bad idea. It sounds awfully satisfying though. “We manage,” John says. “She’s a good kid.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what Sherlock thinks. He’s been texting me about you.”

What? John is surprised.

Mycroft smiles. Irene was right, John thinks. He really is the Ice Man. Irene wasn’t supposed to be right about anything.

“He has?”

Mycroft makes a noncommittal noise. “I’ll see what I can do about the cars,” he says. “Young Miss Morstan appears to be in good hands, for the moment.”

“She’s fine,” John says. “It’s just the flu.”

Mycroft says lightly, “I’ll just pass on your regards to Sherlock, then. It sounds as if you’ll be occupied.”

“Don’t bother,” John says. “Now get out of my flat.”

“Merely looking out for his well being. We wouldn’t want him getting sick too.” Mycroft walks away twirling his umbrella. “Have a good day, Doctor Watson. Give my best wishes to Cecelia.”

Good riddance, John thinks as he shuts the door.

He goes back into the living room, where Cecelia hasn’t moved from the couch. “Sorry, tea will be on in a mo’.”

Cecelia shakes her head, takes the blanket, and slowly walks into her room. She shuts the door behind her.

Huh.

Well, he could always use a cuppa anyways, even if she doesn’t want one. Best to let her sleep for now.

Something buzzes in his pocket. John digs his phone out and checks. New text message.

Oldest to newest:  
_Lestrade says hello. - SH_  
_Post-mortem Amputation. Looking into scar wounds. - SH_  
_Couldn’t stop Mycroft. Sorry. - SH_  
_Will try and give warning next time. Bastard. - SH_

John doesn’t feel like throwing his phone at the wall, for once.

It’s a start, he supposes. He should really go check Cecelia’s temperature first though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this probably wasn't worth the wait.  
> Yes, I have rather severe performance anxiety and yes, that is why this took so damn long.  
> I'm working on the anxiety thing, it's just really hard to do so because both of my parents are super good at making me nervous and are super good worriers and my sister _finally_ got diagnosed with Clinical Chronic Depression and General Anxiety disorder and we adopted two kitties and I have summer classes and my mom is threatening to not financially support me in going to college (again) and life is just really overwhelming right now.  
>  I wish I could predict when I'm going to finish this.  
> I don't think I can.  
> I'm sorry.  
> Basically the short version of all my anxiety is that for NaNo 2011 I won by writing a 50k (terrible) novel in 30ish days, while pouring my heart and soul into that piece of writing, and I got two words of feedback from my mom.  
> "It sucks."  
> Since then writing anything long (and by long I mean over 1k) has completely and utterly terrified me.  
> None of this fear is rational, of course.  
> But I'm still terrified.  
> /overly honest author is overly honest and will stop talking about personal problems in the end notes hopefully


	3. Search and Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misunderstandings happen when people can't communicate.  
> What's the point of communicating, though, if understand is too painful to bear?
> 
> In which there are talking heads, apologies, and some crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real Life still eating away at me. Haven't given up on finishing this.  
> I can't believe that it's taking me this long, but I'm not giving up.  
> Happy Birthday, PipMer.

Her illness isn’t physical, John figures.  There is no fever to explain the listless look in Cecilia's eyes or the way she drags her feet instead of dashing about from room to room the way she used to.  She ignores his offers of tea exchange for watching television shows on his laptop.

“Are you feeling all right?” John asks.

Cecelia doesn’t answer.

“You’re going to school tomorrow then,” John says.

She shakes her head.  John doesn’t understand.  Shouldn’t the routine help?

“You’ve already had a week off,” he says.  “If you need more time…?”

She shakes her head again.

(He wasn’t supposed to be the only one figuring out the care and keeping of Cecelia Morstan.  Mary isn’t here now though, and she didn’t exactly leave behind an instruction manual for raising her daughter.)

“I can’t - ”  He was about to say, _I can’t fix this._  John says instead, “I can’t read minds.”

(Sherlock would have been able to figure this out, John thinks.  Maybe not, but maybe he would have had a better chance than me.)

“The other kids keep asking me about my mum and I don’t know what to say,” Cecelia says.  “They look at me funny ‘cause I dunno what to say.”

John doesn’t know what to say either.  He nods.  He barely knows what to say when people ask him about Mary now.   

“I just want everything to go back to normal,” Cecelia says.

 _I do too,_  John thinks.   _I do too._

* * *

 

There is nothing more he can do, so he gives up, and ignoring Cecelia’s protests, drops her back off at school.    

The school will have counselors to deal with this sort of thing, John tells himself.  There are school therapists and nice normal teachers who will say the meaningless platitudes that John can’t bring himself to say because he can’t say that everything will be all right.  He knows better.

If it wasn’t for the coffee, it if wasn’t for the tea, John isn’t sure where he’d find the energy to keep moving on.  Going to work means going through the motions; he has to smile because that’s what patients expect him to do.  Chin up; soldier on, because someone has to, and it might as well be him.

John picks Cecelia up from school and pretends that the absence of her usually daily retelling of school gossip and chatter means nothing.  Everything is fine.  Everything has to be fine.

When they get back to their flat, a brown parcel sits on their doorstep.  The label, in Sherlock’s handwriting, reads, “For John, just in case.”

“Can I open it?” Cecelia asks.

John picks up the package and doesn’t tell her he wants to throw it away and never get another package again.

“Please?  You never get mail,” she says.  She tugs on his left arm and John’s shoulder hurts.

“Don’t you have homework?” John asks.

She pauses.  “Pretty please?”  Cecelia haunts John’s footsteps as he steps through the opened door into their flat.  He needs to do normal things, so he puts his coat up on the coat hangers, and doesn’t stare at the dust gathering on Mary’s coat shoulders.

John tosses the package on the kitchen table.  “Fine,” he says.  

He opens the kitchen cabinets.  There’s nothing much in them, except for a loaf of bread, some dented cans of beans, and a few teabags left inside a tin.  He should probably go shopping, but that would require checking his bank account, and he doesn’t want to look at that yet.

Cecelia rips open the brown paper.  “Look!” she says.  She holds up a blue scarf.  “And it’s soft!”  She rubs her face all over the soft fabric.

John is definitely too tired for this.

Inside the package is an address written on a piece of paper.  Not 221b Baker Street, but on Montague Street.

“For emergencies. - SH”

(He should know better than to call Sherlock.  His therapist would say that calling Sherlock is a bad idea.)

His fingers type on autopilot.  Turns out Sherlock hasn’t changed his number.

Sherlock picks up on the first ring.

“Why?”  John says into the phone.

“I’m on a case, John,” Sherlock says, and John wants to punch him for using that same old tired excuse.

“Please,” John says.  “I - She’s going to have questions.”

“You never told her,” Sherlock deduces.

(John knows that Sherlock isn’t referring to Mary.)

Maybe it’s better that they’re having this conversation over the phone, otherwise, John would have given up on using his words and would have resorted to angrily storming out.  There’s no way to leave a conversation that you’re having with someone who isn’t really there.

“No,” John says.

Sherlock leaves the line hanging, dead quiet.  At least John can hear him breathing on the other end.  (Another reminder that Sherlock isn’t really dead.)

“Sherlock,” John says, and the name is a question that John doesn’t know how to ask.

“I can come over,” Sherlock says.  “If you want.”

“I -” There should be something John can say to finish the rest of the sentence, but there’s nothing.  Words are always inadequate for Sherlock Holmes, anyways.

“John?”

“There’s a cafe,” John says.  “You’re buying, and don’t tell me you can’t afford it when I know Mycroft has been shoving money at you, even if you’re too proud to take it, you bastard.”

Sherlock is still breathing into the other end.  “Fine,” Sherlock says.  “It’s fine.  It’s all fine.”

“I’ll text you the address,” John says and hangs up.

* * *

 

Cecelia sits on the other side of the cafe table, and John can’t stop staring at the blue scarf wrapped around her neck.

It’s cold out, he tells himself.  It’s fine if she wears it.  She’s just a kid.  She’s not supposed to understand why the blue scarf is important.

“John,” Sherlock says, and John startles.  Sherlock looks serious.  “You wanted to talk.”

Ordinary people smile if they don’t know what to do, right?  So John smiles and says, “Please.  Sit.”

Sherlock sits down next to Cecelia.

There was this big dramatic speech John had all planned out.  There should have been shouting.  He should have punched Sherlock for all the shite that bastard has put him through.  Instead, there’s an awkward silence, a confused child, and three cups of tea slowly growing cold.

Sherlock opens his mouth and John says, “Don’t.”

“Who is he?” Cecelia asks.

John doesn’t know how to answer her question.

“Old friend,”  Sherlock says.  Sherlock is wearing one of his normal people smiles, the kind that John sees - saw - when Sherlock was talking to someone for a case.

“Of sorts,”  John says.  “We lived together for a while.”

Cecelia looks suspicious.  She says, “John’s never mentioned you.”

Sherlock looks her up and down.  “Secondhand coat,” he says.  “But there aren’t signs of frayed edges, suggesting that it wasn’t worn for very long before you got it.  Your hair has leaves in it and there are dirt smudges on your trousers, but no mud on your shoes.  It hasn’t rained recently, so I would guess a park, or more likely someone hasn’t done the laundry in a while.  The scarf is…  It used to be one of mine.”

Cecelia stares at Sherlock.

“And that’s why I’ve never mentioned you,” John says.  

Cecelia clings onto the scarf and glares at Sherlock.  “Is that why you’re here?  To take the scarf back?” she asks.  “It’s mine now.  You can’t have it.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “I wanted to talk to John about your mother,” he says.

“Don’t,” John says.

“I’m sorry about Mycroft,” Sherlock says.

John doesn’t know how to shout at Sherlock until everything goes back to the way it was, because now there’s a confused child who didn’t do anything wrong, and he has to protect her, doesn’t he?  It’s supposed to be the least he can do.

Sherlock extends his right hand out to Cecelia.  “I’m Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective,” he says.

Cecelia shakes his hand.  “Cecelia Morstan,” she says.  “Why do you know about my mum?”

John wants to cover his face.  She sounds so clueless, and he doesn’t know how to explain.  (He never really did know how to explain Sherlock.)

Instead, John says, “Fine.  We’re not doing this in public.”  He grabs his coat off of the back of a chair and tells Sherlock, “You’re paying for a taxi.”

Sherlock doesn’t protest.

* * *

(He really shouldn’t be taking Sherlock home.)

* * *

 

Cecelia goes into their living room and sits down on the sofa.  “I’m not going anyway,” she says, before John can even open his mouth.  “He knows about Mum, and she’s _my mum_ _.”_

Sherlock opens his mouth.

“No,” John says.  He points at Sherlock.  “I don’t need to hear it right now.”

Sherlock shrugs and sits down on a wooden chair backed against the living room’s beige wall.  

(Mary had been meaning to get another table and chair to match.  She’d found the chair in a rummage sale.  The dents and nicks in the wood gave the chair character, she’d argued.)

“You have to tell me about my mum,” Cecelia insists.  “She -” Cecelia begins crying.

John freezes.  This is exactly why he didn’t want Sherlock to say anything, and oh look, Sherlock has gone and made Cecelia cry anyway.

Sherlock pulls a white handkerchief out of his pocket and offers it to Cecelia.  She grabs it and wipes her tears.

“Please tell me Mum’s coming back,” she says.  “Is that why you’re here?  Did you find her?”

“No, no, Cecelia,” John finds himself saying.  He sits down next to her on the sofa and puts his arm around her.  “That’s -- no.  It’s okay, you don’t need to cry.”

“What did you tell her, John?” Sherlock says, and it’s only now John can hear Sherlock getting angry.

“There was a funeral,” John says.

(What are people supposed to tell children about this anyway?)

“I didn’t want to upset her too much.”

(Funerals are hard enough the first time.  He’s been to too many of them already.)

“We -” His throat closes up.  “She didn’t get to see the body.  I didn’t, I didn’t think she would understand.”

(He didn’t know how to explain.)

(Still doesn’t know.)

 _Please don’t,_ John thinks.   _Please don’t be cruel now._

“Your mother is dead,” Sherlock says flatly.  “I’m trying to find who killed her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked this. Incoherent keyboard smashing, etc, makes my day.
> 
> I apologize for the cliffhanger, but I could either make people wait another few years for a new chapter or post this while I still have the energy to edit and type and write.

**Author's Note:**

> I plead guilty to one count of fridging a female character and one count of writing manpain. I'm so sorry.
> 
> Please leave comments/kudos, if you can. They literally are my motivation to get up in the morning sometimes.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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